


who even knows at this point

by cassandraH



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bartender AU, Fluff, M/M, Percico - Freeform, Post-Apocalypse, and they live happily ever after, but dont worry they dont die, end of the world AU, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 15:52:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14240679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandraH/pseuds/cassandraH
Summary: See, that's the problem with the world ending and whatnot - it might've been  better  if there were zombies or some shit, because then there would've been a mission, a goal, an end in mind, but when the earth is literally just throwing its hands up and giving up? There's not much to do except drink and hope there'll be a tomorrow."Nico is a lot of things, and maybe shy used to be one of them, but it definitely isn't anymore. Nico hesitates, and it's just as well because Percy doesn't, surging forward to close the gap. He kisses hopefully, a little bitter and a lot sweet. It's perhaps a little sloppy but messiness is the farthest thing from Percy's mind when Nico di Angelo is kissing him like there's a tomorrow when there hasn't been a tomorrow for the past six months.When they break apart, he knows what he wants, and it's Percy who speaks first, a whispered "Stay" that he pushes into Nico's mouth. Nico doesn't reply, but he does deepen the kiss, and Percy will take it.And that is the beginning."





	who even knows at this point

 

When the world ends, the gods are the first to go.

     Annabeth says something about beliefs fading and religions collapsing and other reasonable explanations, but all Percy can think is: _Typical. Disappointments until the very end._

     He can say things like that now; there’s no otherworldly being to turn him into a dolphin for being a disrespectful little shit anymore. Anyway, Annabeth also said something about "nowhere to run" and "not safe anymore", just before she left the country with her two younger brothers and stepmom. Percy kinda gets it. He thinks about his mom pressing a kiss to his forehead, her two-month old baby in her hands, before boarding a train that would take them south.

    When camp inevitably shut down after Chiron disappeared one night, most of the demigods joined their mortal families because it was clear they were on their own. Surprisingly, some had also stayed. Percy also kinda gets it. His fellow half-bloods are proof that the gods existed, that divine ichor runs in their veins, that their lives so far have been _real_. The few that had remained watched the Empire State Building collapse on TV, all one hundred and two stories crumbling down without so much as a warning. If the massive tsunamis and freak earthquakes hadn't been enough before, the world definitely got the message now: the end is here.

    And for the world beneath the Mist: the gods have abandoned you.

    Paul and his little half-sister had been one of the last to get evacuated from the country, and Percy tucks away the memory of her face, soft and sweet. He would have fought harder to stick with her, but it's not like certain parts of the world will be spared when it ends, and he doesn’t regret letting children take what might’ve been his place. His mother - that's a different story.

    Besides, some of the campers - mostly ones without any family left to find, had stuck around like him, wrecked with the dawning of _this is happening_.

    After the first solar flare, the gradual decrease in their powers follows. Percy tries healing a cut on his hand one day. When the sting of salt is stronger than the cool relief, he falls back, a creeping terror crawling up his throat. The staggering realization hadn’t sunk in until now: if the gods are gone, where does that leave them?

    It’s a question no one seems to have an answer to, not even Annabeth, and for the sake of the younger campers, maybe he smiles and shoves his hand in his pocket at dinner. A Demeter kid grew what they could, and they’re mostly living off that and some provisions that the Stolls find at convenience stores. Every day, they trek farther and farther from camp. One day, Percy knows, they’re not going to make it back.

    If there’s any bright spot, it’s that the monsters stay dead for good. They can’t return from the Underworld because there _is_ no Underworld, and they can’t stay on Earth because there’s no way to return. Still, their habits remain the same, and after a horde of flesh-eating deer invade camp and kill two campers, Percy packs a bag.

    He leaves at sunset because it’s ironically the safest time of day and walks on foot along on the East coast. His powers may have faded, but the instinct towards water remains and for a while, that’s how he lives: seeking out abandoned shelters by day, covering ground by night. It’s an all too easy rhythm to fall into to, and he lets the numbness wash over him until one day, he stumbles across a tiny town between one state and the next. Of course, it’s long deserted, but Percy can see the shadows of what it was: a tourist haven for sea-side lovers. Along the boardwalk, there’s a couple of kitschy souvenir malls with concrete foundations built on sand, and that’s where he finds it.

 

***

 

    Percy wakes up to what passes for a sunrise these days: the gray sky becomes a slightly lighter gray. Reflexively, he tucks in the plush blankets around his ratty air mattress and strides over to the window. It used to have a full, unbroken pane of glass, because when Percy discovered this place he found a little pile of shards on the floor, which means something broke in and not out. He tries not to think about that. But a sheet of plastic and some rubber bands will block a window just as well as glass, and that’s what Percy peers out of this morning.

    The ocean looks even bleaker than usual, and the choppy waves are almost dangerously fierce. He stumbles down the stairs and staggers through the doorway to the bar.

    It's a cozy little thing, with speckled black granite countertops and neon strobe lights that still somehow work. The three wooden tables that remain Percy wipes down religiously, and he makes sure that the shaky leg on the second one hasn’t given up yet. After a thorough sweeping of the checkered floor, he allows himself access to behind the bar and tugs out a bottle of Jack Daniels he discovered two weeks ago. He's been waiting for some special event, like a really spectacular meltdown or the actual end of the world, and so he dusts it off and puts it away.

    Of course, he could just pop it open and chug the entire thing, but self-control is the only thing left that keeps one sane. When the world breaks all the rules, you have to make your own.

    So. He settles for a shot of something pink and orange and fruity and looks around.

    Overall, it's a nice place. Charming, even. Definitely not the worst place to spend the rest of your life in.

    Occasionally, people will even drop by. The world hasn’t _stopped_ , per se, it’s just getting there. Percy snorts at the thought. The world is ending, and life chugs steady on. Go figure. He even sees some familiar faces, like Jake from Hephaestus, who had stayed two nights, and straggling travelers who are just as surprised as he is to find a bar running fairly smoothly.

   ("What," Jake had said incredulously, "are you even doing?"

    Percy paused, gesturing helplessly. "Just what I _can,_ you know?"

    Jake had nodded. He gets it. They all do.)

    Whatever it is, he just knows that mimosas taste a whole lot better when you’re dying. Percy has found that people aren't really inclined to keep up businesses like run-down bars lining abandoned boardwalks when there are other things to be occupied with, like the end of the world. It’s a shame too, because after the general panic and devastation, alcohol is what they turn to. Not that he's surprised.

    But most days, it's just him against the world. And his drinks. See, that's the problem with the world ending and whatnot - it might've been _better_ if there were zombies or some shit, because then there would've been a mission, a goal, an end in mind, but when the earth is literally just throwing its hands up and giving up? There's not much to do except drink and hope there'll be a tomorrow.

    He's definitely not complaining about having a steady and for-the-foreseeable-future unlimited source of alcohol. Before this whole apocalypse business started, the most experience he'd had was an occasional beer from a six-pack the Stolls had snuck in at camp and were willing to give away for better chore privileges. Percy once traded a week of stable duty for a couple mouthfuls of what had to be the biggest letdown ever, but he's had a lot of time to refine his tastes since. He's partial to drinks with dizzyingly saccharine aromas, the ones that'll knock you off your feet if you don't brace yourself, but you also can't go wrong with good old rum either. It only makes sense that he likes it, given his godly parent, and Percy takes it as a sign that maybe, just maybe, not all is lost.

    It's dangerous to let yourself hope, though. So he doesn't.

    Miranda, from Hebe, drops by once to mention that the attacks on camp have mostly tapered off. Her expression is a lot of things, mostly blank and furious and bitter that there's no one to blame. Percy can relate - all of them can. It's strange, he reflects, leaning against the counter, to see a daughter of Youth so aged and weary. He figures she'll get over the anger soon enough, and, well, if he slides her a glass of vodka to speed it up, it's not like there are drinking laws anymore.

    "It helps," he shrugs, when she curls her fingers around it questioningly. "Not enough to do much - our bodies burn through it too quickly - but it helps."

    Her voice is weighed with the fear and desperation in her eyes, but when she speaks, there's a tremor of what sounds dangerously close to hope as well.

    "Do you - do you think that it'll ever - ?"

    She doesn't finish, but the thought lingers in the air, thick and suffocating. He can't bring himself to meet her imploring gaze, and that is answer enough. She gulps the vodka down without a second thought. He refills it.

   "I don't know," he settles on. The half truth feels like a steel weight on his tongue, cold and heavy and vaguely metallic.

    When she chokes sometime between wrecked and numb, hacking and coughing and beating at her chest, Percy pretends not to notice the steady stream of tears rolling down her cheeks.

    He'll tuck her into a makeshift bed of pillows and a spare blanket and give her tissues in the morning when she wakes up wiping at phantom tears. She'll walk away, shoulders tense but lighter than before and he'll watch her the entire time, until her hazy figure blinks out of view. And then he'll trudge back inside, where his bar is waiting, ever-present and grim, to wipe down a mess of spilled alcohol.

    This is routine by now.

 

***

 

If there's anything Percy's learned, it's that nothing will discourage half-bloods from seeking each other out, and if the apocalypse thinks otherwise, it has something else coming to it.

    Most of his demigod - Percy pauses to ponder the accuracy of that label, do they even have a right anymore? - cousins/second cousins/distant relatives know by now that he's out there. Not many know where exactly or why or how, but the general consensus is that he's set up shelter somewhere. He's just doing what he can, again, and if that happens to be bartending and cleaning and taking care of a place that's given him peace, it's nobody's business but his.

    The precious few that do know where exactly all invade simultaneously one afternoon.

    "Woah," Percy says, mildly alarmed, as Chris enters, Lou follows, then Miranda, who meets his eyes solemnly. "What's going on?"

    Jake doesn't look _broken_ exactly, but his smile is hollow, so _so_ hollow, and he says, "Figured you hadn't heard yet. South America's gone too." His voice drops. "They lost Argentina."

    Argentina. Distantly, he remembers a mother's kiss pressed to his forehead, exhausted grey eyes, and a rattler toy, like a child born with incomprehensible memories of a past life. Argentina. Everyone left for Argentina, in the south. And if he’d wondered about them before, well, he doesn't have to anymore, apparently. Percy laughs because he doesn't know what else to do.

    This - this half life of tiptoeing and crawling and holding back breaths - it isn't a life at all. Percy's sick of it, he's sick to death of it. This isn't fair. His nails dig crescent imprints into the meat of his palms, and he wants to shout at the gods for their cruelty, _how dare you do this, who do you think you are, how dare you_ , except he can't, because they're not around anymore.

    His eyes fall on the bottle of Jack Daniels he's been saving. He laughs again. Then reaches for it.

 

***

 

    Noon becomes evening becomes night and he's still drinking. Nobody says anything. They lost people, too.

    Somewhere between one swig and the next, Percy stumbles out the back door. The sight of someone sitting on the edge of the walkway is startling enough to draw him out of his stupor, which is good because he probably would've fallen off the pier and he doesn't even know how the water will react, if it _will_ react, and gods he doesn't want to think about that, so he takes another swig.

  He squints, and wait, Percy recognizes that aviator jacket, that black hair, that distinctive slump of the shoulders. Is that -

    " - Nico di Angelo?"

    It is, in fact, Nico di Angelo, as confirmed when he swivels around to face Percy. And - wow, he looks different. He's always been slender (fact of life, Annabeth said once, and Italians, she had added) but he just looks downright _birdlike_ now, with glittering eyes and hair that keeps falling into them. His face is smooth, unlined, and it's finally grown into the definition his genes give him. Neither one of them speaks for a baffled moment, before Percy breaks the uncertainty and makes his way over to Nico's side. He plops himself down and glances to the side, where he notes that Nico is swinging his feet like a child. The silence stretches on.

    "The pier will probably break, you know."

    "What?"

    "The wood," Percy clarifies. "The wood is rotting and I'm surprised it's even lasted this long."

    "Well," Nico says flatly, "you just summed up the state of the world right now, so forgive me if I’m not too worried about _wood rot_.”

    And just like that, the carefully wrought balance is shattered. Percy grins, says "Point made", Nico blinks, and he draws him into his arms with ease. There's a familiarity in the embrace, like something long lost is coming home. After a moment, Nico pushes him away scathingly, but there's no venom in it.

    Percy laughs, releasing him. "You grew so tall! You're like, what, as tall as me?"

    His eyes narrow, quick to judge the change. Nico shrugs like he couldn't care less, but he has a lopsided smirk that says otherwise.

    "Taller. And probably stronger," Nico adds, eyes flicking down Percy's body. Percy shifts, almost self-conscious. Despite what the advertisements will tell you, alcohol is a poor substitute for training and running and whatever he used to do at camp. Percy still huffs indignantly.

    "You are not." He actually might be. Percy isn't weak, but he has lost a lot of the lean muscle a demigod lifestyle put on him. And if Nico is birdlike now, then what does that say about Percy?

    See, lingering on thoughts like these, they're what drive him to drink. His hand invariably twitches around the bottle of alcohol. The tiny movement doesn't escape Nico, and his eyes darken. He opens his mouth to say something, but Percy cuts him off.

    "Yeah, I know, I know, drinking? Really?" Percy says brusquely, with the air of someone who's done this a couple times. First to Jake, then Katie, Connor, and finally Miranda. And it had been just as complicated then, but this is the first time he's trying to explain to someone who knows him. Who he would have called a close friend before this mess. Percy clears his throat, and Nico arches an eyebrow, waiting.

    It's not the alcohol itself. He's not like, an alcoholic or something. He's not. It’s rarely even strong enough to make a dent in his system. Percy's reasoned it out with himself before, and so he stumbles through it in front of Nico.

    It's not that he wants to lose himself the way some do. It's not even that he craves the numbness, the reprieve from his relentless heart. It is, after all, only human.

    It's just - sometimes, when he lets himself think past _'what should i drink today'_ , a bitterness crawls up his throat. It's a taste they all know, an unspoken spite that had lingered between the half-bloods, and even though no one had said it aloud, it's so fucking present, the thought of _'i live through wars, titans, the earth itself, and this is what brings me down?_ '. And deeper still, the half-formed suspicion that maybe this was what Gaea had wanted all along: ruination.

    So Percy drinks, and he doesn't forget, but it does get rid of the taste.

    Nico stays silent for about a full minute after he finishes. It's long enough for Percy to start sweating, armpits growing uncomfortably damp, and his left hand, still clutching the bottle, starts tapping out a rhythm on the glass that he vaguely recognizes as some shitty pop song and not even a modern shitty pop song, it has to be one of those early 2000s bubblegum -

    "I was actually going to say, 'Can I see that?'" Nico says, cutting off Percy's rapidly derailing train of thought. He jerks his chin towards the bottle in Percy's hand. "So, can I?"

    Percy blinks. His first instinct is to make a comment about Nico's height and age, because old habits die hard, but given what Nico had pointed out earlier, it's probably not the best argument. And besides, that's all kind of gone to shit now. With that in mind, Percy holds it out with a shrug.

    Nico eyes it; it's a good brand, fairly old, half-full. He draws his arm back and hurls it out to sea before Percy can register the _splash!_ of something sinking.

    His reaction is instantaneous; he’s on his feet and gaping at the boy, dumbfounded and a little mad. Okay, more than a little; it had been a _good_ bottle. He’d been saving it for weeks.

    But Nico waves him off and clambers up as well. “Jack Daniels? Really?” He says, sounding exactly like Percy had when he said ‘ _drinking? Really?’_

    Nico scoffs and dusts off his pants. And if Percy hadn’t been irritated before, he definitely is now; he rolls his eyes and clenches his jaw in increasing annoyance, but Nico just smiles at him, eyes glinting.

    “Can’t you just get it?” He asks casually, like it’s no big deal he just wasted a good bottle of alcohol, “Water powers and whatnot?”

    And ouch, that’s a sore point. Nico must realize it too, because his stance changes, challenging melts into understanding, if not quite comfort. The thought of Nico di Angelo comforting someone, much less him, is weird enough to make Percy sigh, dragging his fist across his face.

    Because Nico’s right. And Percy’s too tired for this. He’s been drinking since noon, someone give him a break. Then Nico offers a hand and says, “Come on. Let me show you what a real drink is like.”

   Percy follows without a word.

***

    This turns out to be a very bad decision in light of the next morning and retrospection forced by a killer hangover.

    “I hate you.” Percy groans into his pillow. It smells a bit, like drool and vodka and salt, which is overall a fairly disgusting combination. Ultimately, this is what drives him to crack open an eye. He finds an unimpressed Nico staring down at him, arms crossed.

    Sometime during the night, he ditched the jacket, and it's easier to see the olive-rich tone of his skin with morning light, especially against the color of his -

     "Dude," Percy blinks, "Are you wearing white? And where did you get that tan?"

     Nico's scowl deepens, but Percy doesn't miss the flush that crawls up his throat. It's less visible now, but just as distinctive. "Shut up. It's not like there are many choices, okay? And I didn't get a tan, I just stopped using - "

     Ah. The silence left by the unspoken words is crushing. Of course Nico lost his powers too. Percy clears his throat, and Nico spins around on his heel, striding out the room like he owns it. What the hell. Percy considers yelling after his retreating form, but then Nico calls back, "Breakfast is downstairs. Hurry up or I'm eating it all." He'll let it slide.

     Five minutes later, he's gingerly peeking into the bar, bracing himself for the inevitable damage. He can't quite remember everything, but what snatches he does recall is alarming enough: Lou and Miranda plowing through his tequila shelf, Jake pouring out shot after shot, the clink of glass on glass over and over again until it's one blurred mass of sound and taste and sight. Chris hunched over the upturned corner table, snoring on a table leg.

     It's bad, but not nearly as much as he's expected - which isn't saying much. Puddles of various liquids make the black and white floor seem a lot more colorful, like he's walking on a rainbow of puke. His tables are still intact, if a little worse for wear, but that's okay because he's always aimed for comfort over perfection. As for his alcohol, Nico is bustling around behind the bar, dishing something that smells very good and sufficiently fattening onto white paper plates.

    "Is that bacon?"

    It's a little on the charred side and Percy has to scrape off the blackest parts, but it's ridiculously savory, so much so that Percy has to physically restrain himself from licking the plate. Which would be disgusting. Horrible manners. Yeah, he licks the plate.

    Nico deigns to perch on the bar counter, plate held in both hands and eating with his fingers. Percy pushes down the urge to shove him off; he did just make breakfast. He swings his legs absentmindedly, fiddling with the ring that might have once been used for powers but likely isn't anything special now. It's with a quiet, casual voice that he finally comments, "So this is what you've been doing, huh?"

    Percy is immediately defensive. It wouldn't be the first time someone's remarked about the strangeness of his decisions, but it is the first time he’s close enough for their opinion to matter. "Yeah," he says carefully, "it is. Problem?"

    Nico tilts his head. "Nah." He shrugs. "Just surprised. When Jake told me that you'd left camp, I didn't think anyone would see you again. I was pretty pissed for a while, you know, don't look so surprised - I used to have a thing for you, remember? And then I heard about the two Hecate kids, and yeah, that made sense."

    Percy's head is dangerously close to bursting, due to some unholy mixture of the pounding hangover that knocks like an irate neighbor on his skull, Nico's abrupt and uncharacteristic laxness - sure, he didn't know the kid as well as say, Annabeth, but he's pretty sure he would've remembered this - and the fact that his bar has been trashed while he's sitting here talking with Nico di Angelo.

    "Anyway," Nico rambles on, "I've visited a couple times, and they're doing pretty okay. It doesn't look like food will be running out any time soon, which is good, because one of the Stolls - Connor, I think - "

    Percy's stomach swoops. Even when everything was normal, they lived with the knowledge that demigod lives weren't made to last. Nico notices Percy's stricken expression and hastily rushes on.

    "He's not dead! But, well, he's not going to be raiding any time soon either. It looked pretty bad for a while, not gonna lie. He'll be fine, though." Nico's voice turns sour, bitterness tinging his words. "Or at least as fine as anyone can be right now."

    He's still sitting on the counter, though his legs have stopped swinging. His plate of bacon - ridiculously good bacon - has been set aside in favor of a cup of something that's decidedly not water, which he stares into darkly. Percy nudges his foot, which is the closest thing he can reach.

    "What have you been up to?"

    Nico's nose wrinkles, and he goes back to picking at his jeans. "Not a lot. Mostly wandering, trying to find some of the others. Reyna was with her sister, last I heard. At least I think so?”

    It’s not really an answer, but Percy doesn’t press for more. What does it matter anyway? He’s here, they’re somewhere out there, and sooner or later, they’ll be in the same place. Or not. If the Underworld is gone. . .

    “Have you heard anything from your dad?” Percy blurts out.

    It’s not even a hope, really, just a desperate grab for information. Nico must realize this, because instead of shuttering away and turning murderous, he just purses his lips and looks down, unreadable.

    “If you mean after the Empire State Building, then no. I tried, again and again, and I - I couldn’t, like any connection I had was severed. I physically can't feel anything down there anymore. It’s gone. All of it.”

    Percy wasn’t expecting any different, but to have his belief confirmed is like the undeniable truth has scooped out part of his insides, leaving him hollow. Fuck, he needs a drink. 

    Nico clears his throat. “I’m assuming Annabeth went with her family?”

    Yeah, he definitely needs a drink. Never mind that his head still hurts from last night. So he reaches over the counter and gropes around helplessly, before giving up and snatching Nico’s cup. He grimaces.

    “Tequila? This early?”

    Nico opens his mouth to retort, but Percy cuts him off.

    “Yeah. Annabeth left. Not to Argentina, though.” He adds, because he needs Nico to know it, that Annabeth isn’t dead even though a lot of other people might be.

    Nico hums in response. He looks uncomfortable, like he's only just begun to realize that his presence here is a disturbance, an interruption in the steady rhythm of Percy's daily routine.

    "I should go. I only stayed the night because after Lou left, it was too late to go anywhere. I'll get going soon."

    Percy should probably nod his head and agree, but the idea of being alone, rattling like a ghost around his bar and this abandoned city suddenly makes him feel sick all over again. Solitude has never sat well with him, and with the news from Miranda that attacks have mostly tapered off, he wants to be selfish. Which is why he says, "So soon?"

    Nico's eyebrows shoot up, and he looks apprehensive. Like he's not sure what Percy is thinking. Percy doesn't even know what he's thinking. But after a contemplative pause, he shrugs as nonchalantly as possible. His lips have quirked up uncertainly, a crooked half-smile.

    "Just to help you clean up this mess. Come on. There's a mountain of work to do."

 

***

    

    They fall into a comfortable pattern; Percy cleans, Nico throws away. Slowly, the mountain becomes a hill, then a little pile of smashed glass beneath his feet. Literally. Nico mentions that he wants some fresh air, and Percy nudges him outside with the promise of an 'amazing view' and two cans of beer. The boardwalk is crumbling but stable, and the sand isn't too rough beneath their feet. The silence stretches on while they walk, lazy and languid like a setting sun, which reminds Percy, and he tugs Nico along to the edge of the pier that they were on yesterday.

    "This is the 'amazing view'?" Nico snorts. "Sorry to break it to you, but I've already seen it. I don't need to see it again before I leave."

    Percy nudges him with his elbow, too relaxed to put much force behind it. The _'leave'_ is ignored. "Hey, don't be a smartass. Just wait."

    Nico protests but falls quiet anyway. They pass a beer between them, the cheap, a dozen per pack store-bought kind, and the golden aftertaste matches perfectly the way the sky colours, murky gray deepening to a bruised blue, memories of a sun that used to kiss the horizon like a lover.

    "It does feel a lot more peaceful," Nico admits.

    Percy grins triumphantly. "Told you."

    The sea murmurs beneath their feet, waves unusually docile. It reminds Percy of Montauk, the push and pull of nature and manmade structure, an endless conversation for all of humanity to listen into, yet no one's managed to find out what secrets they're sharing. Maybe it's a little too poetic for Percy, but he figures he can blame it on the alcohol pleasantly warming his veins, and he turns to say as much to Nico, who starts when he's caught staring.

    Nico's gaze drifts towards Percy's mouth, and when his eyes darken, Percy isn't surprised by what happens next, nor does he make any move to stop it.

    Their eyes meet and somewhere in the inch of space between their bodies, something monumental shifts. It’s the type of groundbreaking that entire civilizations were built on, that empires fell prey to, that great conquerors once knelt for. It’s the type of enormous that could maybe save the world.

    Nico is a lot of things, and maybe shy used to be one of them, but it definitely isn't anymore. Nico hesitates, and it's just as well, because Percy doesn't, surging forward to close the gap. He kisses hopefully, a little bitter and a lot sweet. It's perhaps a little sloppy but messiness is the farthest thing from Percy's mind when Nico di Angelo is kissing him like there's a tomorrow when there hasn't been a tomorrow for the past six months.

    When they break apart, he knows what he wants, and it's Percy who speaks first, a whispered "Stay" that he pushes into Nico's mouth. Nico doesn't reply, but he does deepen the kiss, and Percy will take it.

 

 

 

 


End file.
